


what normal people do

by cmc



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, daryl's a bit slow on the uptake, one day i'm gonna write something other than fluff but it is not this day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmc/pseuds/cmc
Summary: “I found it in one of the houses, and I thought it might be an enjoyable activity for you and Jesus on your date night.”

  Daryl blinks. “On our what?”
It's like everyone knows the rules of dating except for him. Daryl's just trying to keep up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to get this written for like. two months. this was supposed to be much longer and less fluffy and. uh. better. but somehow I ended up with.... whatever this is. I don't know. I tried and therefore no one can criticize me.

It all starts (predictably, like most things do) because Eugene can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.

“Have you ever played the Settlers of Catan?”

“Oh god,” Daryl says. He pauses and looks to the heavens for strength before turning around to face Eugene. Daryl’s at the front gate in Alexandria, strapping some gear to the back of his bike as he gets ready to head out for the Hilltop. He was hoping that it was early enough for him to sneak out without seeing anyone to avoid any small talk. But Eugene’s been having a rough time of it ever since Abraham – well, ever since Abraham. Even though the war is over Eugene has been keeping busy with his bullet factory, so Daryl really doesn’t see him that much, but Paul has been rubbing off on him (and good lord he knows he’s spending way too much time around Paul because he can actually hear him snickering and saying _in more ways than one_ in the back of his head) and he’s been making an effort to be nice to him, mullet and all.

Eugene is standing in front of him, clutching a small red box with a picture of a landscape and a sunset. Daryl takes one look at him and longs wistfully for the days when he just sat in his camp of solitude on the Greene farm and didn’t have any friends and spent all his time doing his two favorite hobbies, not talking and ripping the sleeves off his shirts.

“Uh,” Daryl says. “No.”

Eugene sticks out his arms so the box is practically shoved under Daryl’s nose, like the closer proximity of the box to Daryl’s face will somehow telepathically beam just how big a deal this game is straight into his dumb uncultured brain.

“It’s a strategy game in which one creates a settlement and builds a community by producing resources and trading with other communities,” Eugene explains.

“The fuck am I supposed to do with it?” he asks. Totally nailing this whole being nice thing so far.

“I was thinking you and your boyfriend might –”

“Ugh,” Daryl says, because, seriously.

“What is your preferred term?” Eugene asks, genuinely curious in that dead-eyed, monotoned way he always is. “Partner? Gentleman caller? Companion?”

“ _Ugh_ ,” he repeats. “My preferred term is usually _Paul_.”

“Oh, I might be mistaken. I was under the impression the two of you were romantically involved.”

Daryl thinks about the quarry nearby and wonders if a jump from the top would be high enough to kill himself. “We are –”

“But he is not your boyfriend?”

“He _is_ – just give me the damn game, good lord,” Daryl says, snatching it out of Eugene’s hands. “Why are you givin’ me this?”

“I found it in one of the houses, and I thought it might be an enjoyable activity for you and Jesus on your date night.”

Daryl blinks. “On our what?”

“When one person accompanies another person to whom they are romantically and/or sexually attracted on a series of activities, involving –”

“I know what a date is,” Daryl interrupts. “No one does those anymore. It’s the apocalypse.”

“Oh. I just made an assumption. Of course the schedule was thoroughly packed before, but now that our adversary has been defeated I believed it was monotonous enough for such romantic delicacies. I know Rick and Michonne like to do little things together every once in a while.”

“Right,” Daryl says.

“Last time I was at the Kingdom Ezekiel and Carol were planning to spend the evening together.”

“Uh huh,” Daryl says.

“And Aaron and Eric have their dinners every Thursday.”

“Yes,” Daryl says.

“I’m pretty sure Tara and Rosita are – ”

“O _kay_ , Eugene, thank you,” Daryl says, shaking the box in his hands for emphasis. He looks down at the little people in the picture, happily bumping along on the back of a wagon, one of them holding an axe, another a scythe. “I’ll… okay,” he continues, and throws the box on his bike with the rest of his stuff.

Eugene looks like his version of perky when Daryl looks back over at him. “Always a pleasure to be of assistance,” Eugene says. “You two have essentially lived the real life version of the game, so it should be child’s play for you, yet extremely rewarding.” Eugene gives him a salute after he finishes talking, and turns on his heel and walks off.

Daryl stares after him.

He sees Rosita heading his direction to take over Eugene’s shift, and he shakes out of his reverie, opening the gate and hopping on his bike. He gives a wave to Rosita before he speeds off, and he sees the gate sliding closed behind him in the side mirror.

He reaches the intersection at the end of the road and slows down so he can turn right, towards the Hilltop, but instead he comes to a complete stop before he can.

He sits there for a minute, gnawing at his lip, the bike thrumming beneath him.

He takes a left.

 

 

 

Later that day Daryl rolls up to the Hilltop, waving at the guards and waiting for them to open up the gates. He’s been riding all day and it’s the afternoon by now, and because it’s fall, almost winter, the sun is lower in the sky than it normally is at this hour. The air is starting to get colder, too – Daryl’s wearing two shirts under his usual vest, and half of his ride was spent internally lamenting his untimely separation from his old poncho.

The guards open up the gates for him, and he leaves his bike outside the walls, since he’s not going to be here long. Maybe. If things go according to plan.

A few people wave at him as he wanders through the grounds. He doesn’t see Paul anywhere, but eventually he stumbles across Maggie and baby Hershel in the garden. Maggie is digging around in the dirt and her son is lying on a big blanket a few feet away, happily banging some toys on the ground. He’s got a giant floppy hat on top of his little head that’s almost as big as his entire body.

“Looks like Dale reincarnated,” Daryl says by way of greeting.

Maggie looks up, startled. What he said registers and she glances over at Hershel, laughing. “He’s making Glenn proud,” she declares, standing up and brushing her hands against her thighs to get the dirt off.

“Hell yeah he is.” Maggie steps over and gives him a hug, and then Daryl reaches down and gives the baby a pat on the head.

“You sleep in or something?” Maggie asks, tapping her wrist where a watch should be. “I have shit for you to do.”

“Or somethin’. Gotta take a rain check until tomorrow.”

Maggie narrows her eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Boy howdy,” Daryl agrees. He looks around, “Is – ?”

“Jesus is in his trailer,” Maggie rolls her eyes. “I’m guessing you’re riding off into the sunset and I won’t see him until tomorrow, too?”

Daryl hates being this transparent. “We’ll be back later tonight. Maybe. It’s almost sundown anyways.”

She waves her hand and goes back to her plants. “Yeah, yeah, go on,” she says, dismissing him, and Daryl turns to go before she changes her mind. He’s heading towards Paul’s trailer when she calls out, loud enough for everyone all the way in the Kingdom to hear, “BE SURE TO USE PROTECTION!”

Daryl whips around but keeps walking, backwards, and glares at her. Maggie just smirks over at him and waves, and Daryl sighs. He’s not the only one who’s been spending too much time around Paul.

As he turns back around to walk normally he spots the flowers surrounding Maggie and wonders, briefly, if he should go back and pick a handful first. That’s what people do, right? But the thought of enduring Maggie’s comments is enough for him to stamp that idea down as quickly as it came.

He reaches the trailer door and is about to turn the handle and go on inside, but then he hesitates, his hand freezing in midair.

Okay. So it’s only been a month.

Two and a half weeks, technically. Not counting the time they’ve spent apart. Last time Paul was in Alexandria he finally got fed up with Daryl not doing anything about their… _thing_ , and took matters into his own hands. Which meant he cornered Daryl in his kitchen one night and hit him on the mouth. With his mouth. Repeatedly. With tongue. It was very nice. Daryl might have thought he was hallucinating.

He wasn’t, apparently, and they started dating, apparently. Which apparently means that Paul likes him. There are a lot of things in Daryl’s life right now which are apparently apparent to everyone else but him, like how someone like Paul could like, _like_ like, someone like him. Which he did. Apparently.

Daryl still has doubts.

Everyone, of course, found out immediately after it happened, and he was met with cries of, “well, finally!” from several parties. Faced with this new-found information that everyone and their mother knew Paul had a thing for him and Daryl was the last person to know, he had to take a good, long look in the mirror and think about why that was.

Which only lasted for about a minute, because Daryl hates looking in the mirror, but then he just stared at the wall instead and figured the whole introspection thing could work just as well there. And what he realized is that he can’t see himself in terms of being the object of someone’s affection. For example, how he felt about Paul – like when he was around Daryl never knew what to do with his hands, like his cheeks were permanently flushed, like he desperately wanted the other man to turn his attention to him and whenever he _did_ Daryl wanted to swim across the ocean and become a hermit in the mountains in Tibet so he wouldn’t have to deal with the feeling in his stomach anymore. There probably weren’t any walkers up there, either, so. Bonus.

It was okay for Daryl to feel that way for Paul (well, no, it wasn’t _okay_ , because feelings are dumb and should never happen, to anyone, at all, ever), but clearly no one would ever feel that way about Daryl. He can’t imagine someone looking at him and blushing, or getting flustered when he spoke to them, or wanting to hang out with him just to hang out with him.

So whatever Paul is feeling for Daryl must be… something else. Sure, he likes Daryl enough to be inside him but whatever this is probably won’t last. If Daryl had his way then it _would_ , but if there’s one thing he’s learned from both the old world and the new it’s that things don’t go his way. Paul likes him but he doesn’t like him like Daryl likes him and pretty soon he’ll realize that.

A week and a half ago Paul had left Alexandria because that’s when he promised Maggie he would be back. He asked Daryl if he wanted to come with, but Daryl said he had a few things he needed to help Rick with but to expect him in ten days. Which was not technically a lie, but most of his nights were spent lying in bed alone whilst listening to some of Carl’s angsty teenage boy music that he borrowed. Last night, the lyrics _what you do to me, I know, I can’t believe, something about you got me down on my knees_ drifted through the air as he stared at the ceiling and he wondered when he stopped being a stoic badass and became… _this_.

He had been debating, but he decided that he would go to the Hilltop the next day as planned, because if he was going to be a goddamn 13-year-old about this he could at least be in the same vicinity as the person actively ruining his meticulously cultivated _I-don’t-give-a-shit_ image.

He stares at Paul’s door, his hand still frozen, a few inches away from the handle.

He knocks.

He hears shuffling and then footsteps tromping to the door. It swings open, and there he is.

“There you are,” Paul says. “You don’t have to knock, you know.”

“Hey,” Daryl says.

Daryl’s on the step lower than him, so it’s Paul this time who has to bend down. He presses his lips to Daryl’s, soft, just saying hello.

“You coming in or what?” he asks against Daryl’s mouth.

“Uhm,” Daryl says, pulling away. “Actually.”

Paul looks around and notices for the first time that Daryl doesn’t have anything with him. “Where’s your stuff?”

“Bike’s out there,” Daryl says, pointing towards the gates.

Paul’s brow furrows as he glances between the gates and Daryl. “You aren’t staying?”

“I am,” Daryl assures quickly. “If you – if you want that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.”

Paul’s looking at him expectantly, leaning against the doorframe, waiting for him to continue. Daryl looks at him and thinks, _This is how. Maybe this is how you get him to stay with you. Just nut up and ask, idiot._

He rubs at his nose. “Wanted to ask you somethin’.”

Paul quirks an eyebrow. “Shoot.”

Daryl exhales through his nose and tries to stop feeling like he’s heading towards the electric chair. “I –” _okay, that’s a good start, now just keep going. I want to take you on a date. You can do it,_ “– need –” _wait, what? No, no, we don’t need anything. Okay, maybe we can still make this work. I need to take you on a date?_ “– you –” _yes, finally bringing Paul into the equation here, that’s good, keep making words with your face hole,_ “– to –” _go on a date with me, you’re almost there, Dixon, round third and bring it home_ , “– help me on a supply run.” _Fuck._

Paul is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. And the second head is also on fire. “Uh. Okay?”

Daryl nods. “Okay.”

Paul also nods. “Okay.”

Daryl’s stuck in some weird feedback loop thing because all he can do is nod and say okay. He nods again. “Okay.”

His second head must have exploded into a cloud of glitter, or turned into a fish head, or something, because Paul looks at him even weirder. “This is usually the part where you tell me where we’re going.”

Right. “Right,” he says. Words. Now would be a good time to say some words. He knows a lot of words, like, at least a hundred, probably. It’s his time to shine. “Uh.”

“Are you having a stroke?”

“ _No_ ,” Daryl snaps. There are, in Daryl’s life, several certainties that he can always count on to be true: the dead don’t stay dead, people who wear boat shoes are assholes, and Paul Rovia’s teasing is guaranteed to get some kind of reaction out of him.

Unfortunately, Paul also knows about that last one. He raises his eyebrows and smirks at him. “How about you just tell me on the way there,” he says, like he’s trying not to laugh. Daryl wants to smack him. Or kiss him. His usual reaction, anytime Paul does anything. “Let me get my stuff and then we can go.”

 

 

 

They pull up in front of the building an hour later. “Daryl?” Paul asks as Daryl kills the engine and puts out the kickstand on his bike. “Why are we at a church?”

The church is relatively small, just the sanctuary on the first floor and then a few offices upstairs from what Daryl saw when he went inside earlier. But the building sits on top of a hill, and there’s a playground for kids at the bottom of a big grassy slope behind the building. There are a few picnic tables out back with a patio cover as well. It was definitely the kind of church that, when it was still in use, was more about community and less about fearing God, from what he can tell.

Daryl opens his mouth to tell him the truth, but what comes out instead is, “Time to meet the parents, right?”

Behind him, Paul scrambles off the bike so he can be dramatic as possible. “Daryl F. Dixon, did you just make a Jesus joke?”

Daryl rolls his eyes and stands up as well. “Not my middle initial.”

“You _did_. I’m so proud.”

“Don’t ruin it,” Daryl says, walking towards the front doors.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Paul says as he falls into step with Daryl. “Are we low on Bibles or something?”

Daryl grunts. “Got some stuff for kids here. There’s toys and clothes upstairs.”

He can see Paul in the corner of his eye glancing over and the other man can probably see right through him. “And you need me because… you couldn’t carry all those heavy baby clothes and plastic toys with just your scrawny little arms?” He pokes one of the arms in question.

Daryl smacks his hand away. “Somethin’ like that.”

They reach the front doors and Daryl gives it a few raps just in case. When he was here a few hours earlier there hadn’t been any walkers inside, but you never know. Nothing makes a sound after a few minutes so they slip inside.

It’s a fairly modern church, recently built from the looks of it, nothing like Father Gabriel’s or the one they found near the Greene farm. They’re in the lobby, on the right are the doors to the sanctuary and on the left are the stairs that lead to the offices. The floors are carpeted and the walls are white, and though it’s clearly been stripped of the useful supplies already it still looks better than most of the buildings they come across on runs.

Paul heads to the right where the doors to the sanctuary are. “There ain’t nothin’ down here, it’s all upstairs,” Daryl says. Paul peers through the glass windows on the doors and looks inside among the pews.

There’s a few tables and cabinets that Paul checks before he crosses the room. “What about in here?” he says, gesturing towards a plain white door that’s next to the stairs.

“It’s locked,” Daryl says, shaking his head.

Paul quirks an eyebrow. “Well at least one of us came prepared,” he says, and he digs around in his pockets until he procures his lock picking tools. He squats down and gets to work.

Daryl sighs and moves to stand next to him. It’s silent behind the door, so he doesn’t think there are any walkers ready to pounce. He has his crossbow in his hands but pointed down to the floor as Paul works. He watches his hands deftly flicking the tools around as he digs in the lock, his ear near the door, listening intently.

Maybe he should just call this whole thing off, Daryl thinks. This can just be a normal supply run, like they always do. These things never work out for him anyways – every time he tries to do something nice it seems like it always blows up in his face. Maybe this is better, to just keep doing what they’ve been doing. It was a dumb idea anyways.

The room is silent save for the occasional ticks of the tools in the keyhole, and after a minute Paul grins in triumph. “Got it,” he says, and the lock clicks open.

He stands up and Daryl gives him space to open the door. Paul turns the handle and pulls.

“Oh, shit, this is heavy,” he says. Then, “Oh _, shit_.”

The door must have been soundproof, or thick enough to muffle the telltale moans of the dead, at least, because now they have more than a dozen surprise guests. There must be a basement down there because bodies are hauling themselves up the stairs that lead to the door, appearing from a pool of darkness beneath them.

“Fuck,” Daryl curses, and he immediately kicks into action. He fires off two bolts down the stairs before the walkers can pass the doorframe, and they fall backwards. That, at least, buys them some more time, because the two he hit fall back and collapse on the ones behind, slowing them down. He quickly bends down to draw the string and reload as Paul tries to haul the door shut.

“Do you have a gun?” Paul shouts, shoving against the door, but the dead behind it aren’t having it. Daryl curses – he left it out on the bike since he didn’t think there would be anything inside, and Paul doesn’t carry a gun unless he has to.

“It’s outside,” he says, firing off two more arrows, and two more tumble down the stairs. That takes care of four, at least, but there’s eleven more that he can see, and there’s no way he’s getting those arrows back now. He takes out his knife and stabs the nearest one in the head, but it gets stuck in the bone and the walker falls down the stairs as well before he can yank it out.

“Oh, nice,” Paul says, glaring at him. He’s got his shoulder against the door, but the ten walkers behind are overpowering him. “Ready?” he asks, looking at Daryl, who nods. He pushes off the door and they both take several steps back into the lobby.

As the dead fall out the door and stagger towards them, Paul takes out his knife and holds it out to Daryl. “Hope you know how to share,” he says.

“You only brought _one?”_ Daryl groans, slinging his crossbow across his back and snatching the knife. One of the walkers nears him and he takes it down swiftly.

Paul kicks his leg up and knocks down an approaching walker, and when its head hits the floor he swings his foot down and stomps its skull with his heel. “That’s rich, coming from the guy who just lost five weapons in thirty seconds,” he says, and turns to the next one.

Three have surrounded Daryl and five are on Paul, but at least it looks like there aren’t any more coming up from the basement. He knows Paul can handle himself, but still, seeing him surrounded like that makes him uneasy.

“Hey!” Daryl shouts, getting his attention. Daryl tosses the knife at him and immediately panics because holy shit he just _threw_ a _knife_ at his _boyfriend,_ what the fuck, but Paul nimbly catches it by the handle out of the air. He quickly adjusts his grip and throws out his arm, stabbing the walker closest to him in the eye socket.

Facing his own attackers now, Daryl kicks one of them in the chest so it goes crashing down on the floor and turns to the remaining two. He pushes the closest one away and sticks his hand out to stop the last one as it lashes out at him, and its teeth gnash right in front of his face before he can swing his fist up and punch it. It goes down, but it’s not completely out yet, and by that time the other two are back on their feet and advancing on him.

He tries to kick out again but he doesn’t have Paul’s fucking ninja moves and the two are on him before he knows it. He’s holding them off, trying to figure out how to push them back so he can get at his crossbow and hit them with that, but then he hears a whizzing sound and suddenly the knife is lodged in the right walker’s skull. His looks over and sees Paul has already gone back to kicking his own crowd of the dead, which has dwindled down to two.

Daryl grabs the handle of the knife and yanks it out and the walker crumples to the ground. He immediately moves on to the next one and jams the blade in the underside of its jaw. “You could’ve hit me, asshole!” he calls out as he pulls it free, and this one falls as well.

Daryl turns to the last walker, which is bloody and stumbling from his punch. He glances over and Paul is taking down his second to last, giving it a swift kick as he holds out his arm, keeping the last one at bay with a hand to its chest.

His last walker goes down with a quick stab and then Daryl watches as Paul finishes kicking a hole in his walker’s head. He only has one left, and he pushes it away to give himself some room to kick as he backs up near the wall.

Daryl throws the knife so it sticks into the wall right next to him. “Need that?” he asks.

Paul gives him a look, and then in one fluid motion he lifts his arm up, yanks the knife out of the wall and swings around to stab the last one standing.

It joins its friends on the floor, and then the two of them are left standing there, staring at each other. Paul has some blood on his face, and Daryl’s sure he has some on his, too.

They stare at each other for a few moments, catching their breath, as the silence settles around them where the groans of the dead were a few moments ago. Daryl kind of feels like closing the gap between them, running across the room and slamming their mouths together, but he doesn’t.

“Well,” Paul says, kicking his foot out towards the bodies surrounding him. “That was fun.”

Daryl grunts and goes back over to the door to the basement so he can get his knife and arrows back. Once they’re all safely in his possession he turns back around to find Paul peering up the stairwell that heads upstairs.

“We can just go,” Daryl offers. “I’m kinda ready to leave this place.”

“No, let’s go up,” Paul insists. “I’m sure Maggie will appreciate it.”

He heads up the stairs and Daryl trudges dutifully after him.

When they reach the landing Daryl practically shoves Paul to the room to their left. “Why don’t you go check that room,” he suggests, nudging the other man towards the door.

Paul gives him a weird look. “Okay?” he says, squinting at Daryl suspiciously before he turns and walks into the office.

Once he’s out of sight Daryl immediately bolts down the hall to the right and enters the room at the end. It’s got a big window that looks out on the slope behind the church. The sun is going down by now, and the back of the building faces west, so there’s a lovely view of the sunset over the surrounding trees, the sky pink and orange and hazy. Pretty soon the sky will be inky black and the stars will pop out. It’s all very romantic.

Daryl scrambles to mess everything up before Paul sees.

He runs over to the desk he shoved up near the window earlier and pulls it until it’s back in the middle of the room. He uses his arm to knock some stuff off the top as he does, and he winces as it clatters to the ground. He shuts the curtains too, and the fabric explodes with a cloud of dust that has Daryl sneezing but whatever, no romantic sunsets in here today, nope, no thank you –

“There wasn’t anything in – is that Settlers of Catan?”

Fuck.

Daryl sneezes again. When he regains control over his sinuses he turns around slowly. Paul is standing in the doorway, staring at him. Daryl didn’t hear him come in. He needs to put a fucking bell on him.

“Uhm.” Paul looks pointedly at Daryl’s hand – the one not closing the curtains is clutching the board game box tightly. He looks down at the game in his hand and immediately flings it across the room like he’s been burned and it explodes when it hits the wall.

He looks at the pile of the box and the board and game pieces and dice on the floor. Paul looks at it too. They both stare at it for a minute, like it holds the answers to all of life’s mysteries. Or at least the answer to why Daryl is such an idiot.

“What just happened,” Paul says.

Daryl thinks fast. “Nothin’. Settlers of what now? I never played any board game, ever, with anyone.”

Paul’s doing the staring thing again, like Daryl’s the dumbest person he’s ever met. Maybe he is. He steps over to the game pile and carefully picks up the board and holds it out to Daryl.

“This _is_ Settlers of Catan,” he says.

“No it isn’t?” Daryl tries.

Paul gives him a funny look and then glances around the room, noticing the candles strewn across the floor, the bottle of communion wine he found, the two glasses.

“Wait.” His eyes grow very wide and his gaze snaps over to Daryl. “Is this a _date?”_

Daryl freezes.

“Uh.”

Paul’s eyes get even wider, somehow. “It _is_. You asked me here on a date? Why didn’t you just say that?”

Daryl fidgets under his scrutiny. He feels on display, suddenly, like all of his insecurities are written in bold capital letters on his skin there for Paul to read. He wants to tell him, he really does. He wants to say _because I like you so much and I was afraid you’d laugh at me_ and _I’m really scared you’re going to leave me and I thought this might be a way to get you to stay but I didn’t want to screw it up_ and _this is what normal people in relationships do and I want to prove to you so badly that I can do this but I can’t_.

He gnaws on his lip and doesn’t say anything.

Paul is quiet for a moment, but then he drops the game back to the floor and pads across the room to stand in front of Daryl. “Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “I would have said yes.”

Daryl forces himself to meet Paul’s gaze. There’s no pity in his eyes, thankfully – but then again Paul has never pitied him, not even when he was dragging him bruised and bloody and broken away from the Sanctuary. He’s just staring at him the way he always does, a hint of teasing, a hint of sincerity, a hint of something else Daryl can never name.

“That being said,” Paul continues when Daryl doesn’t respond. “You really don’t need to do all this.”

Daryl blinks. “Do all what?”

“The whole,” Paul gestures vaguely at the rest of the room. “Wining and dining thing. I mean. You can if you want to, but it’s not necessary.”

“Oh.” Daryl hadn’t even stopped to think about whether or not Paul would actually want to go on a date. He had been so busy panicking about whether or not he’d be rejected it hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d just assumed – Paul is more experienced in the world of dating than he is, he must have been on dates and stuff before. He must be expecting that, from Daryl. “I just – uhm. I was talking to Eugene – ”

“You’re taking dating advice from Eugene?” Paul interrupts. “Daryl. Really. I like him, but. _Eugene_.”

Daryl grumbles. “Good point.”

“Listen. I know you don’t think so, but I’m not good at this stuff either.” Daryl snorts, and Paul gives him a look. “I’m _not_. I’ve dated guys before but not – it hasn’t been – ” he breaks off, frustrated, and runs a hand through his hair. “It’s never been like this, okay? It hasn’t, and I don’t know how to do it, either. But one thing I _do_ know is that we get to do this however we want to. You don’t – have to do this kind of stuff because you feel like you have to. I mean, you can if you want to. I don’t really want to, honestly. But we don’t have to do shit just because we feel like that’s what every couple is obligated to do.”

He’s got that earnest look on his face as he finishes his speech, like he wants desperately for Daryl to understand. And Daryl thinks that he actually does.

He’s been so busy the past few weeks thinking about everything he must be doing wrong, how he doesn’t know what to do because he’s never really done this before, the whole relationship thing. How he was going to have to step his game up and learn what to do for anniversaries and birthdays and all that crap, if Paul even stayed with him that long. Because that’s what people in relationships did. That’s how they always were in movies and TV, the ones that were happy and lasted. If you didn’t do XYZ then they didn’t work because in every relationship there are certain things expected and if you can’t provide those things then you’re doomed.

What a load of bullshit.

He looks at Paul and thinks, _we’re two fucking weirdos_. They’ve got long hair and beards and they’re living in the goddamn apocalypse. This isn’t gonna be like some make believe crap he saw in a movie once because this is real. This can go how they want it to go. They can do what they want to do and not do what they don’t want to do. Daryl isn’t missing out on some _Rules of Dating_ guidebook that everyone else has read except him because it doesn’t exist.

“Just, you don’t have to – _do_ anything, okay?” Paul continues. “I just want to hang out with you.”

And suddenly it hits Daryl that Paul _likes_ him. The way Daryl likes Paul. Not some different way, in which a few days or weeks or months from now Paul was going to wake up and realize his mistake and leave. He likes him. He wants to do this, with Daryl. He wants to try.

That’s what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? Trying to do this, with someone you like a whole lot. Someone you like more than you like being alone. Daryl didn’t get it until now, because he thought that hating yourself meant that no one else could like you. But realizing that Paul likes him doesn’t mean he’s magically fixed, that he likes himself now, because he doesn’t. But it’s not about that, liking yourself, at least not now. He’ll get there one day, possibly. Right now it’s about accepting that someone else is allowed to like you, and maybe that’s the first step.

Daryl realizes he hasn’t said anything in a minute and he’s just been staring blankly at Paul while he has his stupid revelation. So he does the first thing that comes to mind.

He takes Paul’s face in his hands and kisses him, hard, hauling him closer so their bodies are pressed together. Paul seems surprised – he freezes for a moment, but then he winds his arms around Daryl’s waist and kisses back. Daryl tries to put everything he has into it because he doesn’t know how to say it out loud, how he’s sorry he’s such a dumbass, how he’s going to try, how he’s so, so ridiculously grateful Paul isn’t expecting him to be someone he’s not, how he doesn’t _want_ Daryl to be anyone else except him. He says it with his hands and his lips and his tongue and hopes Paul gets it. The grip at his waist and the feel of his mouth tells Daryl that he does.

Daryl pulls back after a few minutes, breathing hard. Paul blinks owlishly up at him.

“You like me,” Daryl blurts.

Paul blinks again. “Just now figuring that out?”

Daryl kisses him again, just a press of lips this time. “Maybe,” his says against Paul’s mouth.

Paul gives him a small smile, his eyes fond. “Yeah. I do.”

He closes the gap between them and Paul starts to maneuver them to the right, towards the small couch against the wall. The back of Daryl’s knees hit the cushions and he sits down, pulling Paul down with him.

Paul brackets his knees around Daryl’s thighs, sitting on his lap and straddling him. He cups Daryl’s jaw with both hands and tilts his head up for a better angle, kissing him more deeply. Daryl clutches at his hips, the tips of his fingers digging into the skin above the waistband of his pants.

They haven’t even done this that many times yet but god, he already loves it when Paul is on top of him. Not just because he knows what to do but because how he feels, his hips moving in circles, his skin under Daryl’s hands, his hair tickling Daryl’s face, the solid weight of his body resting on his thighs. It’s enough to make him feel lightheaded, like he’s drunk, his body responding to Paul’s movements of its own accord.

Paul shifts closer on top of him, Daryl can feel his half hard dick pressing into his stomach and he groans.

“You have something?” he murmurs in between kisses, his voice low and muffled against Paul’s mouth.

The other man pulls back and looks him in the eye, unimpressed. “ _You_ didn’t bring anything?”

“No, ‘cause you _always_ have stuff.”

Paul huffs a laugh and leans back in, mouthing at Daryl’s jaw. “This was _your_ idea, if you knew you wouldn’t be able to resist me then you should have brought your own damn lube.”

Daryl grabs the back of his head and crushes their mouths together, biting at his lower lip, tugging at his hair. “No gun, no lube, only one knife… you’re gettin’ sloppy.”

Paul thrusts up against his stomach again, and Daryl grabs him tighter and keeps him pressed up against him, not wanting to lose the feel of the line of his dick. Paul squirms on top of him and tries to keep up the movement of his hips but Daryl’s arms are caging him in, holding him close.

“It’s all your fault,” Paul says, breathless. “You can’t expect me to be completely focused on packing when you just showed up on my doorstep looking like that.”

Daryl moves his hand down and grabs his ass, pushing him closer against him, and Paul whines, deep in his throat. “Like what?” Daryl asks, voice low.

Paul gives a breathy laugh. “Like –” he starts, and then it breaks off into a moan when Daryl loosens his grip a little and starts palming at his dick. Paul pushes up into his hand a bit before he opens his eyes back up and his gaze finds Daryl’s.

He smacks Daryl’s hands away and then starts undoing his belt and the buttons of his pants. “We’ll have to make do,” he says, and he moves on to Daryl’s pants.

Paul takes both of them in his hand and Daryl can’t help it, he can only lie there as Paul gets them off. Daryl thunks his head back to rest against the back of the couch, and Paul takes it as an invitation to mouth at his neck, his breath hot against his skin.

Then Paul has to go and open his big mouth again. “I’m very aware that we’re having sex in a church right now,” Paul says, his hand not stalling in its movements against Daryl’s dick.

“Who cares,” Daryl says.

“It’s like having sex in my parents’ bed.”

“Shut _up_ , god.”

“No, no, that’s my father, please call me Jesus,” Paul laughs.

Daryl tangles his hand in his hair and gives it a few tugs until Paul moves his mouth away from Daryl’s neck and pops his head up. “You ain’t –” and his breath hitches as Paul speeds up his hand, goddamnit, how he manages to tease Daryl in every single situation is frankly ridiculous, “– ain’t allowed to talk anymore.”

Paul’s eyes are fucking twinkling, the asshole. Like he knows his teasing is getting Daryl there even faster. He adjusts his grip and, really, Daryl never stood a chance.

He finishes first, as usual, his body tensing up and then releasing. He groans when he’s done, realizes he was clutching at Paul’s thighs during, and his fingernails are leaving indents in the fabric of Paul’s pants.

Paul’s staring at him, his mouth parted, both of them still in his hand. Daryl moves his hand away and takes Paul in his own grip. It takes a few more minutes but then he’s writhing on top of Daryl and he comes saying his name.

 

 

 

“How’d you even find this place?” Paul asks. They moved back outside and are sitting on top of one of the picnic tables out back, passing the dusty bottle of wine back and forth. The sun’s about to go down and they need to head back to the Hilltop soon, but neither is quite ready to go yet.

“Just drove around until I found somewhere nice enough,” Daryl answers.

“I can’t believe I almost threw a knife into your head on our first date,” Paul says. “I am so bad at this.”

Daryl shrugs. “I mean. You’ve been my boyfriend for a month and I only just now figured out you like me, so.” Paul looks over at him, his eyebrows raised. “What?”

“You just said _boyfriend_.”

“Shut up.”

That only makes Paul smile wider, but he doesn’t say anything more, at least. He looks at Daryl for a few more seconds before he turns his gaze back on the scene before them, grin still in place.

They need to go. Thankfully the communion wine is diluted enough so he doesn’t have to worry about driving home in the dark while tipsy, but if they keep drinking it he will. Getting in an accident and then having to fight off a herd of the dead while buzzed does not sound like his idea of a good time. They need to go. But.

“It wasn’t that bad a date, right?” Daryl asks.

Paul glances over at him. “No,” he says, and his eyes have that look that Daryl never knew what to call before but he thinks he’s finally starting to understand now. “It wasn’t.”

They sleep in the church and go back in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> the song daryl's listening to during his angst sesh is [what you do to me by teenage fanclub](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RXOEhrpfxo), a song which is desus af. pretty much every teenage fanclub song is, I've decided.
> 
> as always, feel free to yell with me about these two on [tumblr](http://lawofaverages.tumblr.com)


End file.
